The Decameron Project

by The New York Times

  He hasn’t changed, she sighed. I’ll tell him not to use your office again.

  Of course not, I replied. He was only letting off steam with his friends.

  Nine more Houseparty Fridays took place in my office. Nine more weeks made up of identical days and identical nights. The longest that Mavi and I hadn’t had sex, without even trying. We never talked about it. If we had, we would’ve convinced each other that the circumstances weren’t ideal. And we would’ve felt worse for lying.

  In bed, on the 71st night, I watched her ridge-back and imagined my own Rolling Stone interview:

  How did you react to the pandemic?

  By not moving.

  What’s the first thing you’ll do when the lockdown is lifted?

  Go see an andrologist.

  Every now and then I’d hear Michele’s baritone laughter. He would soon be moving back to Milan for the next phase. Was the city suddenly safe? No. But as he explained, almost guiltily, he was no longer used to the three of us living together for this long. I saw the place, emptied of his presence, I saw myself lying in the same spot on the bed, and I waited for a sense of relief that never came. What I felt instead was unsettled, the feeling growing stronger by the minute.

  The number of infections was falling. I’d seen the local business owners cleaning their stores, getting ready. The excitement that came with a return to life was buzzing all around me, but there I was, in my bed, hoping for an upsurge of virus infections, hoping for the lockdown to never be lifted, for the pandemic to go on forever and ever and for Michele to never go back to Milan, for him to stay up every night, having online raves at my desk. Because the alternative would be for Mavi and me to ask ourselves what happened to us, why sex was so bad the last time and nonexistent since. Why we hadn’t had sex in the face of fear.

  The window was open, but I suddenly found myself gasping for air. I pulled off the sheet and sat up.

  Can’t sleep? Mavi asked me from her remote corner of the bed.

  I’m thirsty.

  I headed to the kitchen. Michele was there. Eating ice cream out of the tub. I took out a glass, filled it with water, and sat down in front of him.

  No Houseparty? I asked.

  I didn’t feel like it.

  As always, he hadn’t waited for the ice cream to thaw, so he was stabbing the spoon forcefully into the tub. I was about to tell him that he’d bend the metal that way. And that he was using an Ikea spoon without any complaints, but I chose to remain silent.

  I met a girl, he said. We went to a private room. She wanted to… yeah. But I didn’t feel like it.

  He didn’t look at me. If he had, he would have seen my confusion, not at the conversation itself, but at having never thought of the possibility until that very moment of meeting someone in these circumstances, during a lockdown, on Houseparty, and even having sex with them. And yet, as he said it, with the naive brightness of his 22 years, it felt perfectly natural.

  I liked her, but I’m a little more complicated, he continued. Screens make me anxious for this sort of thing. To each their own, you know?

  Without waiting for a reply, he nudged the ice cream in my direction.

  You can finish it, he said. It’s salted caramel, the best flavor if you ask me.

  I stared at the spoon streaked with cream and saliva. Extremely high risk of contagion. I wanted to stand up and grab a clean one, but Michele was looking at me, innocently. So I took the spoon, brought it to my lips. Once, then again.

  You always clean the sides, huh? he pointed out. I never care. I just go for the middle.

  He left. I finished the ice cream; not that there was that much left. Then I headed back to bed.

  What took you so long? Mavi asked.

  Nothing. Just had some ice cream.

  I raised my hand to her ridge-back. I grazed the middle, just beneath the soft creases of her top.

  That’s ticklish, she said.

  Want me to stop?

  No.

  Translated by David Brookshaw from the Portuguese

  here’s a knock on the door. Well, “knock” is one way of describing it. I live far away from anyone; war and famine are my only visitors. And now, in the eternity of yet another afternoon, someone bombards the door with his feet. I run over. Well, “run” is one way of putting it. I drag my feet, my slippers creaking over the wooden floor. At my age, that’s all I can do. Folks start to age when they look at the ground and see an abyss.

  I open the door. It’s a masked man. On noting my presence, he shouts:

  “Six feet, keep six feet away!”

  If he’s a robber, he’s frightened. His fear unnerves me. Frightened robbers are the most dangerous ones. He takes a pistol from his pocket. He points it at me. But it’s a funny-looking weapon: It’s made of white plastic and emits a green light. He points the pistol at my face, and I close my eyes, obedient. That light on my face is almost a caress. To die like this is a sign that God has answered my prayers.

  The masked man is soft-spoken and has an affable look. But I’m not letting myself be fooled: The cruelest of soldiers always approached me with an angel’s demeanor. But it has been so long since I had any company at all that I end up playing his game.

  I ask the visitor to lower his pistol and take a seat in the only chair I have left. It’s only then that I notice his shoes are wrapped in some sort of plastic bags. His intentions are clear: He doesn’t want to leave any footprints. I ask him to take his mask off and assure him that he can trust me. The man smiles sadly and mumbles: These days one can’t trust anyone, people don’t know what they’re carrying inside them. I understand his enigmatic message; the man thinks that underneath my wretched appearance, there lies hidden a priceless treasure.

  He looks around, and as he can’t find anything to steal, he eventually explains himself. He says he’s from the health services. And I smile. He’s a young robber; he doesn’t know how to lie. He tells me his bosses are worried because of a serious illness that’s spreading like wildfire. I pretend to believe him. I almost died of smallpox. Did anyone visit me? My wife died of tuberculosis, did anyone come and see us? Malaria took my only son, and I was the one who buried him. My neighbors died of AIDS, and no one wanted to know about it. My late wife used to say it was our fault because we chose to live far from where there were any hospitals. She, poor soul, didn’t know that it was the other way around. It is hospitals that are built far from the poor. It’s just the way hospitals are. I don’t blame them. I’m like them, hospitals I mean; I’m the one who harbors and tends to my own illnesses.

  The lying robber doesn’t give up. He refines his methods, though still in a clumsy way. He tries to justify himself: The pistol he pointed at me was to measure my fever. He says I’m well, announcing this with an idiotic smile. And I pretend to breathe a sigh of relief. He wants to know whether I have a cough. I smile disdainfully. A cough is something that almost sent me to my grave, after I came back from the mines 20 years ago. Ever since then, my ribs have hardly moved, and nowadays my chest just consists of dust and rock. The day I cough again, it will be to attract St. Peter’s attention at heaven’s gate.

  “You don’t seem ill to me,” the impostor declares. “But you may be an asymptomatic carrier.”

  “A carrier?” I ask. “A carrier of what? For the love of God, you can search my house, I’m an honorable man, I hardly ever leave home.”

  The visitor smiles and asks if I can read. I shrug. Then he places a document on the table with instructions on how to maintain hygiene, along with a box containing cakes of soap, and a small bottle of what he calls “an alcohol-based solution.” Poor fellow, he must imagine I’m partial to liquor, like all lonely old men. As the intruder takes his leave, he says:

  “In a week’s time, I’ll come by and see you.”

  At this point, the name of this illness the visitor is talking about dawns on me. I know the illness well. It’s called indifference. They would need a hospital the size of the whole
world to treat this epidemic.

  Disobeying his instructions, I advance toward him and give him a hug. The man resists me vigorously and wriggles out of my arms. Back in his car, he hurriedly strips off. He frees himself from his clothes as if he were stripping himself of the plague’s own attire. That plague called poverty.

  I wave goodbye and smile. After years of torment, I am reconciled with humanity: Such a bumbling robber can only be a good man. When he comes back next week, I’ll let him steal that old television I’ve got in my bedroom.

  he day I awake? Tomorrow, yes—Wednesday—and feel nothing beside me, then fleeting feelings of betrayal, then indignation—obviously righteous. Tomorrow will make today yesterday, just another day, not that day to be remembered forever, not that special day marked always on my finger. Maybe as big, bright and shining, maybe subtle and elegant, maybe not on my finger at all. Maybe just a thought—security. Just a thought—happiness. Just a thought—love. Just a thought—forever—that will be remembered before all those moments, those past moments, those precious moments we’ve shared. Those smiles, hugs, kisses, couplings—so many couplings.

  Tomorrow in the soft summer sunlight I will stir, feel warmth on my face, feel warmth on my body, feel the cool dry air that the air-conditioning brings. Light, bright and clear, cast on your empty pillow will show your hair growing out from the slip like little black curly sprouts. You will be going bald early. It’s the stress, and so you know, I’ll still love you when it’s all gone. When I am all gone. I will smile—no, laugh—and spread my body over your still-warm indentation to see if by being where you were I can be you. No such luck. Tough luck. I never liked our sheets—your sheets—because of how they grow so cold so quick when you are gone.

  I will be alone again, with only my thoughts, with only my longing, with only my insecurities and a whole host of melancholy things. And I will think, So this is the depth of reconciliation. Return to the status quo? You off to work before the dawn, leaving only a trace of your presence—the waning heat in the bed beside me, and me again alone wondering if life could be better, if life will be better perhaps officially coupled and recognized by the state, by God or by gods. Yes, you and me joined. Yes, me somehow officially complete. But tomorrow, I fear, like today, like yesterday, will bring no such luck, and I will think I never liked our sheets—your sheets—because they are the green of your hospital scrubs and remind me that for you to work is to live, to live is to suffer and a whole host of melancholy things.

  I will get up and feel sunlight on my breasts, feel sunlight on my stomach, feel sunlight on the neatly shaved triangle between my legs. And with this light will come thoughts of missed opportunity the previous night, fleeting feelings of lust, then longing—your flesh my flesh, you and me joined, yes me, for a moment, somehow officially complete. But that will all be yesterday, tomorrow will be today, and I will walk from bed to bathroom thinking I live in spurts—perhaps that’s why you can’t marry me. Perhaps we are too incompatible.

  The whole room is my spurts—the paintings on your walls, modern prints of ancient art, originals from artist friends and my clothes tossed over various pieces of furniture, a shirt on the old brown leather easy chair, jeans by the foot of the bed, panties by the wastebasket. All these spurts right to the bathroom and its tarnished, brass-rimmed mirror that I found, that you hated, that I loved, the one that makes you feel as if it is 70 years before present and you are a scratched-up picture of a Negro steward in your own home. No such luck. Wonderful luck. You never liked our history—my history—because of how it makes kings into servants and madmen into kings.

  I will look at the mirror, and I will think I am tired of hearing you say you want to change it. And I will look in the mirror, at myself, at the fine wrinkles on my eyelids, at the light crow’s feet near the corners of my eyes, and I will look down past the dimple of my belly button to the space free of hair and so sensitive it turns red where fingers have touched just above the triangle between my legs, and I will place my palm on this spot, imagine a kick, and think, Toby—I’m not getting any younger. I will mumble, There is no forever here.

  I will look at the mirror and I will think soon you will be able to change it. And I will look in the mirror, at my white face, now red, tear-streaked, and horrible, look at the blood vessels broken beneath the surface, and think—I have color at least. And then I will look at my white face, now red, tear-streaked, and horrible, look at the blood vessels broken beneath the surface and think, Toby, am I only white to you?

  On bad days—always. On good days—sometimes. Then there are spectacular moments.

  I will say to myself, Poor thing, you, and stand there fully naked, arms crossed over my breasts, holding myself, watching me watch me wonder, Toby, am I only white to you? I will say, Ashley, come on. Get dressed. You can’t carry on like this. Like what, I will ask. Like this, I will say, paralyzing yourself, dramatizing your life. If you love him, don’t leave him, and if you leave him this time, leave him alone. There are other relationships. I will sit down on the bed where you lay and I will think there will never be another you. I will say, But I’m scared, in a voice an octave away from being unheard.

  I will shower, drip water from my hair onto the floor, onto the bed, across the carpets, to the dresser—the mahogany one that your father’s mother gave your mother that I hoped your mother would one day give to me. No such luck. Tough luck. I will lay my body on your still-warm indentation to see if by being where you were I will somehow realize that I should be with you. No such luck. Tough luck. I will mumble, I never liked our sheets—your sheets. I will mumble, Break the cycle. There is too much history here.

  That will be tomorrow, but this night, above the sirens, and the helicopters, and the heated chants, for a time you breathe rhythmically and I breathe in spurts. You on top of me. Your body next to me. Sweat smell, sex smell, and all the feelings—your skin beneath my nails, your hand around my throat. Toby. Stop, I tell you, stop. Why? you ask me, why?

  Because now there is something hard between us.

  Toby, answer me truthfully, I say. Toby, do you ever think of marrying me? Silence from you. From you no noise. Just your hot breath and that hardness between us. Toby, I say. I ask Toby, Am I only white to you? Silence. Shifting. You tucked between your legs.

  I think bad days. I think good days. I think there are spectacular moments. I think tears. I think smiles. I think love and the life it should bring. But that is all future. In the past it was all different—I think.

  * * *

  Then, I said, As you wish. Let us sleep. You hung up and I hung up and I found myself alone again. I put my palms behind my head and reclined into these sheets once warmed by your body and wrinkled, once tangled because of you and aggravatingly positioned in all the wrong places—a knot under my chin, a bunch between my legs—now flat, uninspired and uninspiring. I put a pillow in your place and wrapped the sheets around it, thinking, At least if it lay where you were, then I would dream it was you. I did not and when the sunlight warmed my eyelids into a brilliant orange, I woke and thought, Oh, shit, I’m late. I’m screwed.

  I swung my feet over the edge of the bed onto the floor, not onto books, or shoes, or underwear, or shirts or pens, and I was again relieved that I had damaged nothing, scattered nothing, that my phone would display no messages about my maltreatment of your existence. I should have been happy, but in this space, the absence of your things made me think of standing above you while you slept, as your light, quick breaths troubled your lips. You, the mystical, the magical, my love, my life. How I would think—Are you really my love my life? And then, There are no easy answers here.

  I brushed my teeth quickly, but when I spat out, the white foam around the drain refused to drain. I turned on the water, and there were still white bubbles. I pulled the drain plug and hanging on its ends were strands of your hair, wet and twisted together, slowing the progress of my day. I shivered and flung the whole thing into the wastebasket. Then I w
ashed my face, examined my imperfections in your mirror, and rushed out the front door.

  Imagine my surprise when I found you sitting in the hallway. I didn’t want to wake you, you said. I looked at you again, turned to the door and back to you there, your arms on your knees and a silent please that stretched wide your eyes, nostrils, and lips. Your horrid half smile.

  You reached out to me and I reached out to you across the divide of the hallway, through the sunlit dust particles that danced in slow currents from the central air. Your white hands, my Black hands, then clasped hands and then a hug. I felt you breathe against me, and I wondered—affection, comfort, desire, or all of these things—as your stomach touched mine and as we kissed and you tasted of the day before. I didn’t care, couldn’t care, and you pushed me back into the apartment. You brought your hands to my face and held my cheeks. You said, I want you, Toby. I felt your hands on my chest, on my stomach, then lower still, coaxing, caressing, and I thought you naked here on the floor, me naked here on the floor, us naked together. I was overwhelmed by the onslaught, confused. I said to you, Stop, Ashley, stop. Why, you asked me, why?

  Because you always disappear when there is something hard between us.

  Because I’m already late for work, I said.

  Right, you said. Toby. It’s me. Ashley—your once and future girlfriend, the mystical, the magical, your love your life, the one you begged to come back last night. Aren’t you happy to see me?

  Happy to see you? At the moment, I said yes, and I believed myself. Happy to see you—of course yes. No more returning to this home empty of you and yet filled with your presence—your hairs on the pillow beside mine, in my hair and hairbrush, around the sink your deodorant, lotions, perfumes, and a whole host of lavender-scented things. Happy to see you? Yes of course because it was too much to have you here and not have you. Too perfect—at some points exactly what I had wished for—too absurd.